Twenty-four year old Claudia has always been the sensible one. From her boring call centre job right down to her practical wardrobe; flash and extravagant are not part of her normal vocabulary. She may live in Ascot, the home of British horse racing, but the presence of all the moneyed revellers blocking her route home from work are more of a nuisance than a thrill. Until one of them catches her eye…

Peter’s life couldn’t be more different. All his life he’s worked hard to make it in the banking industry, to give his wife all she’s ever wanted. After a day of sipping champagne and watching the races, an indiscretion of hers with Peter’s colleague changes this picture-perfect vision of middle class life forever. He decides to cut and run, only, he hasn’t a clue where he’s going.

A chance meeting by the side of the road brings them together, making them forget their opposing backgrounds. Is passion alone enough to overcome their differences?

Chance Encounters is a series of stand-alone novellas set in jolly old England, following a set of loosely connected people as they find love in unexpected places. Can love conquer all, from class differences to age gaps? Read on and find out.

EXCERPT – Chapter One

I’ve been dreading my drive home all day. In fact, that is an understatement. After a long day at work, the last thing I need is to be reminded that I’ve decided to live in that beautiful, mostly serene part of the world called Ascot, Berkshire. Which of course during this week of the year turns into a hellhole, overrun by obscenely rich people clogging up the roads in their Bentleys, Rollers and whatnot. Actually the Bentleys and Rolls Royces don’t bother me so much, it’s the hordes of not-so-rich people who think it’s classy to hire a Hummer limo that I can really do without.

Such is my aversion that I’ve even started to avoid newspapers this week, the one week in June that the Royal Ascot races take place. If I wanted to see photos of ridiculous hats and passed out drunk people on the lawn, I could’ve just bought a ticket and gone myself. But I don’t really care about horse racing, or showing off. I would much rather attend a music festival, if I had to brave the Great British Weather in inappropriate clothing anyway.

My neighbours tend to flee around this time of year, but unfortunately I can’t afford a holiday. With the way things have been at work, I’d better put every spare penny away for a rainy day. At least tonight will be the last time this year I’ll have to deal with this mess, tomorrow is my day off and I don’t intend to venture out onto the roads at all until next week when normality has returned.

I’m already looking forward to my quiet long weekend, focusing on nothing but my paintings. All I have to do is get there.

Slowly I make my way through the various traffic control measures set up seemingly to hinder the flow of traffic rather than improve it. I suppose it all makes sense to someone. It takes me an hour to get onto Blacknest Road, which in ordinary circumstances would be about five minutes from home. But these are not ordinary circumstances.

As my car creeps along in its spot within the tedious metal conga line that has formed around me, all I have for company are my radio and my grumpy thoughts. And the occasional sympathetic smile from someone in much the same situation in the opposite lane.

I occupy myself by looking at the flash cars that slowly pass by. Nothing too unusual in this part of the world, various Ferraris, Lambos and of course the already mentioned Bentleys and Rolls Royces of all ages. I almost give up on seeing much variety when something small and dark blue catches my eye parked up on the verge ahead. Twin white racing stripes accentuating its curvaceous body, top down to reveal its cream leather interior. Absolutely beautiful. I wonder if it’s a real AC Cobra or just a good replica. And more importantly, what is it doing sitting in the muck next to this busy road?

Traffic creeps ahead and I get closer, there’s a man in the driver’s seat, arms folded and head resting against them on the steering wheel. He is sporting the accepted race-going uniform; grey waistcoat with a matching hat and coat on the passenger seat beside him.

I don’t know what possesses me, but I leave my coveted place in the traffic queue and pull up behind him. Just to see if he’s OK—I tell myself—or at least to get a better look at his magnificent car.

Stepping out has me cursing under my breath immediately. Of course I managed to position my exit right in the middle of a patch of sticky mud left behind by this morning’s early summer showers.

“Excuse me, are you having car trouble?” I ask. He lifts his head off his forearm which is still resting on the steering wheel. “I was wondering if you need help…”

His pale blue eyes stand out against his face and particularly against his dark hair which is starting to grey around the temples. If I had to guess I’d say he was in his late thirties or early forties, and the salt and pepper look is really working for him. Something seems off, though. I remind myself he’s probably just had a few too many glasses of champagne or whatever it is they drink at the races.

“I wanted to leave, but thought I probably shouldn’t be driving. So I pulled over.” His voice sounds friendly, if a tad uncertain. Everything about him suggests money, from his accent to his clothes. Perhaps the car isn’t a replica after all.

“You’re probably right, I suppose you shouldn’t be driving. Where were you headed?” I ask.

He averts his eyes downwards before answering. “I don’t know.”

“Right. Where do you live?” I try.

“I can’t go there.” There’s an awkward silence after his response, and he grips the steering wheel with both hands and rests his forehead against his knuckles.

I think for a little while and look around. The traffic jam heading away is still going strong, but traffic moving in my direction has started to thin. If pulling over wasn’t already weird enough, what I say next actually stuns the rational part of my brain completely. The impulsive surge inside of me is simply impossible to fight, causing my lips to utter certain words before better sense prevails.

“What do you say, you come with me and we’ll figure out where you should be going after reaching my place?”

When he looks back up at me, there is not a hint of suspicion in his eyes. It doesn’t seem to register with him that only a reckless lunatic would invite a drunk stranger home. What the hell am I thinking?

“That would be nice. Thanks.” He tries to smile but instead his face twists. “Oh God, I feel ill.” I hurry around the car and open the car door to pull him out by his arm.

“Believe me, tomorrow you’ll really regret it if you throw up in that nice car of yours!” I warn him.

He walks a few steps away from the road and leans against a tree. I can’t help but stare. He looks fit, about six feet tall, broad shoulders. Any other observations would be pure speculation though, plus it would be difficult for anyone not to look good in formal wear.

I still can’t believe I’m doing this. There’s something special about him, tempting even. Something that makes him appear trustworthy and harmless. Still, I’m sort of aware of the possibility that it may all be a clever act on his part and I’m about to let an axe murderer into my house.

Walking towards him now, I can see he has his eyes closed and is just breathing in the fresh air away from all the traffic.

“Mine, on the other hand, nobody would touch if I abandoned it here for weeks. And since you’re not fit to drive just now…” I continue.

He doesn’t say a word, simply places the car keys into my outstretched hand and opens the passenger door for himself. Looking at the gorgeous car, I decide then that even if I end up hacked into bits and buried in my own garden tonight, it will have all been worth it.

After grabbing my handbag and locking my own vehicle, I sit down next to him. His expression has hardly changed, he shows no sign of concern that he’s letting a complete stranger drive his car. I have to conclude he’s not all there. I turn the key and the engine purrs to life with a deep, thundering rumble which can only mean one thing: under the shiny, curved bonnet, there lives a huge beast of an engine.

“Why so distracted, did you lose big at the races today?” I ask while checking over my shoulder for a gap in the traffic. It occurs to me that my attempt at small talk is making me sound like a cabbie.

“I don’t gamble. But yes, in a way.” He sighs.

I’m intrigued but don’t want to probe too much. The car behind me flashes its lights, allowing me to merge. After a moment’s silence, he takes a few deep breaths.

“My wife…” His voice trembles ever so slightly while he speaks, “and someone I’d considered a friend…”

My question unintentionally cut right to the core of the matter, it sounds as if he lost hope rather than money.

“Wow, I’m sorry. That’s terrible.” I’m not sure I want further detail but I can’t take the question back now.

He shakes his head. “I should’ve seen it. But I guess I wasn’t around enough, working long hours, sometimes Saturdays too..” He turns towards me and when the traffic stops again, I get the chance to study his face. Perfectly symmetrical, high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. He is gorgeous, perhaps even more so because he looks so lost.

“But it was all for her! I wanted to give her the life she deserved. Why didn’t she see that?” Tears are starting to blur those magnificent eyes of his. “Instead, she fucking replaces me.”

Well, that’s one mystery solved. I guess posh people do swear.

“You’re right, she should’ve understood,” I say.

The traffic starts moving again and we get just a little bit closer to our destination.

“It was all for nothing.” He looks out at the trees and houses passing by, lost in thought again.

Nothing more is said for the rest of the drive; fifteen minutes or so. I pull up into the cul-de-sac on the hill where I live, the three surrounding houses are unoccupied while the neighbours are on holiday. The setting is secluded, idyllic but the actual house is modest by most standards. It makes me wonder what his home would look like, the exact opposite I bet. The gravel makes a crunchy sound underneath the tyres as I park the car under the rustic wooden carport which is always smothered in pink clematis blooms at this time of year.

Right at this moment the clouds break apart, letting through the pleasantly warm evening sun. I hand him the keys and we both get out of the car. Rather than head for the door, he distractedly takes a few steps towards the fence that surrounds the driveway.

“Beautiful.” He’s right, but it’s been a while since I really appreciated the view myself.

Perhaps I should try my hand at painting a landscape this weekend.

Tall trees line the fields that cover most of the hill below. The lush green leaves on the trees as well as the long grass glisten in the golden light, giving everything a warm glow.

Meanwhile I open the low gate and enter into the garden that runs along the side of the house. There’s a large wooden table and bench set up against the wall, overlooking the same downhill aspect. He follows a few steps behind me.

“Make yourself at home, I’ll just go inside and get some cushions.” I turn the key and enter the cosy living room through the patio door.

While I’m inside already, I might as well cobble together a meal of sorts. Rushing to pop some pre-baked bread in the oven, I raid the fridge for cold meat and cheese.

I vaguely wonder why I’m bothering to hide the Aldi packaging, or arrange everything on a nice plate. After all, my bluff is pretty much called already, the classiest bottle of wine I have probably wouldn’t have cost more than five pounds. Must’ve been a gift that’s been languishing in my kitchen for much too long.

It annoys me that I even care, I never pretend to be something I’m not, why start now?

DON’T MISS THE FIRST BOOK IN THE CHANCE ENCOUNTERS SERIES, ONE NIGHT STAND!

BUY:

Lucy is used to having a handle on things herself: her business, which she’s fighting to turn around after a rough patch, and her love life, which consists of carefully conducted casual encounters during which only she calls the shots.

A one night stand with George – the tall, husky biker whose rough exterior hides a gentler side – changes everything. Lucy’s usual approach doesn’t work anymore: come morning, she doesn’t want to say goodbye. Perhaps it’s time to let someone into her life for more than just one night?

Meanwhile, the crucial project she’s just landed is about to fall to pieces, threatening her reputation as well as her finances. Suddenly Lucy has to learn what it’s like to not be in control of anything at all.

Chance Encountersis a series of stand-alone contemporary romance novellas set in jolly old England, following a set of loosely connected people as they find love in unexpected places. Can love conquer all, from class differences to age gaps? One-click and find out.

ABOUT HEDONIST SIX

Call me “H.” or Hedonist if you prefer. I’m a Romance writer based in London and I’ve always been a dreamer, though it didn’t occur to me to write down the stories I kept dreaming up until 2012. You’ll not find flowery language and poetry in my work. What you will find though is believable characters, none of whom perfect, going through life and trying to find happiness. Just like the rest of us.

I first started writing because I craved to see more of “my kind of books” on the shelves. In any scenario, you’ll find me rooting for the underdog. The (emotionally) scarred hero who hasn’t really had much (or any) luck in love. The shy office worker who wants to pursue the man of her dreams, but hasn’t quite mustered the courage yet. All my characters are beautifully flawed and messed up, in a way that makes them perfect for one another.

Katrina is never alone. She is bound to others inside her, tighter than any Siamese twins could ever be: Cherry, the freewheeling photojournalist, Anisa, the covert spy-assassin, and others as yet unknown, all sharing her body and mind as she goes about her work in a psychiatric hospital. But she is starting to unravel, and her sole hope is the handsome Dr. Sean Paisley, the only one who can make her whole again.

Girl Within Girl is a dark erotic thriller that wanders through a sensual maze of mind control and torture.

My Review:

4/5 Stars!

Girl Within Girl is a fascinating, erotic, dark romance with shades of psychological thriller. It is deliciously deceptive and will keep you wondering what the heck you just read. From the first page, this fast-paced, entertaining read kept me turning pages until the end. Katrina is mesmerizing as she fights to manage her many personalities and maintain her sanity. Dr. Paisley is her last hope. Aruna clearly took great care in writing this book with a quite realistic portrayal of madness and personality disorder.

If you are a fan of dark, psychological reads, then this is definitely for you.

About the Author:

Half French, half Khmer (Cambodian), I’m a woman whose head is filled with fantasies and intriguing stories, and who wants to share them with others.

About the Book

Title: Batten Down the Hatches

Author: Roxanne D. Howard

Genre: Contemporary / Erotic Romance

Piper Goldhirsch is the head reporter for Business Buster, an Undercover Boss-esque tabloid exposé show. While it was never her dream job, it pays the bills. When she attends a masked Halloween Ball and has a passionate affair in the billiard room with a sexy costumed pirate captain who calls himself Captain Jack, what starts out as a few kind words and exchanged kisses soon transforms into the greatest sex of her life, and she’s haunted by the powerful magic between them. Piper parts ways with the mysterious stranger, and assumes she’ll never see him again… until he becomes her job’s next target.

Captain Jack Spencer runs his own brand new whale watching company, Ahoy, Matey, on the outskirts of Costa Mesa and Balboa Island. He’s so good at it he’s garnered the attention of rival companies. Piper is called in by Jack’s nemesis to go undercover on an ocean tour to expose him, and reveal his alleged illegal tricks that have made his business so successful in a short amount of time. But when Piper realizes he’s the same sexy man she slept with at the Halloween Ball, she’s emotionally conflicted. Jack is unable to forget the woman from Halloween, and when they do meet up again, they can’t keep their hands off each other. It’s time to Batten Down the Hatches, because the waves are about to get wild!

Author Bio

Roxanne D. Howard is a romance novelist who resides in the mid-western United States. She has published At the Heart of the Stone and Chicks Dig the Accent, and her most recent Costa Mesa Series with Loose Id. Roxanne is a U.S. Army veteran, and has a bachelor’s degree in Psychology and English. She loves to read poetry, classical literature, and Stephen King. She is also an avid Star Wars fan, musical theater nut, and loves everything related to marine biology. She is the proud mother of two beautiful girls, several pets, and loves to spend time with her husband and children when she’s not writing. Roxanne loves to hear from her readers, and she can be contacted at author@roxannedhoward.com. To find out more, please visit her website at www.roxannedhoward.com.

Pre-order the biker full of dirty promises today on ITunes, Barnes & Amazon!

I’m a drifter.
A man born to ride through this world alone.
There used to be a time when I thought I was the rescuing type. I enlisted in the Marines and made it my duty—I was going to save lives.
I was going to be a true American hero.
But God had another plan.
Or maybe Satan did.
For everything I touch finds mortality.
I’m no hero.
I’m nothing.
I’m a veteran biker, a former nomad who survived war only to live in hell.
Now I ride with the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn and I’m drifting into a different kind of chaos.
The kind that revolves around a pretty girl with intoxicating green eyes.
A girl who has the power to turn me inside out.
A girl who doesn’t need anyone to rescue her because she’s her own savior.
Until she’s not.
But a man plagued by war and the devil inside him can never be her hero.

Gina Spinelli

Strong. Independent. Fierce. They are the three things I strived to be. But sometimes being successful can be lonely. Sometimes a girl just wants to be a girl and have someone take care of her. Maybe even love her. Sometimes the strong become vulnerable. Or worse, the victor becomes the victim. Sometimes we lose control or in my case it’s stripped from you. Defeated. Broken. Haunted. They are the three things I have become. In my darkest hour I admit defeat. In my darkest hour I need one person. I need him. Stryker.

#THENOMADSERIES

DRIFTER EXCERPT

Silence.

It engulfs me, provides me with a false sense of security the moment I close my eyes and drags my subconscious into the depths of sleep. But, it’s quickly ripped from me by the sound of plagued screams. A woman shouts with a foreign tongue and though I don’t understand the Afghani language I know beyond a shadow of a doubt she’s yelling for her innocent child to run, to seek shelter and for the man with the laser pointed at the child’s head not to shoot.

I am the man with the sniper rifle.

I am the man perched on a roof, with my finger firmly wrapped around the trigger.

And that bitch just sent her fucking child to play in the sand with a bomb strapped to his back.

For a moment, I want to believe she’s not playing me—that her kid isn’t a ploy in some sick terrorist plot. I ignore the sounds of my men commanding me to take my shot, insisting that time is of the essence and if I don’t do it, I’m betraying my country. I loosen my finger around the trigger and open both my eyes and watch the boy lift a handful of sand through the scope attached to my rifle. He opens his palm and spreads his fingers wide letting the grains of sand fall through them before he looks back at his mother.

She shouts more of that foreign bullshit and I wish I could get my hands on her and slice her tongue from her mouth.

It’s the final thought that crosses my mind before I pull the trigger and watch the boy fall back into the sand as my bullet pierces him between his eyes–innocent eyes that were once wide with wonder now are dull and lifeless.

Sweat beads along my brow and I can feel the bile rise up my throat as I wait. Everything around me fades as I stare at the boy in the sand. I lose myself and question my purpose, my mission, my platoon—everything. The bomb doesn’t go off and I swallow the lump lodged in my throat. I frantically peer into the scope, moving it to the right in search for the mother. I picture the Virgin Mary cradling her lifeless son that was pulled from the cross and wait for the woman dressed in black garb to do the same but she’s nowhere in sight.

Before I can divert my eyes back to the boy the blast erupts robbing me the opportunity to look into his eyes one final time because his head has been blown off his body and the fragments of him are now one with the sand he was playing with.

This is war.

And this is hell.

All that’s left is the sound of my own screams vibrating through my body, deafening as it pounds my eardrums and invades my head.

It’s those very screams that pull me from my sleep night after night and why I’ve given up on getting a full night’s rest, using my bed only to fuck and even that didn’t happen too often.

Until her.

I used to pound my dick into any willing pussy, never bringing them into my bed, believing I didn’t need that false sense of hope that I’m normal when I’ve got a woman wrapped around me, begging to spend the night in my arms after I’ve thoroughly fucked her—only for her to realize I’m fucked in the head when I wake her up screaming like a little bitch.

Yeah, I didn’t need that shit.

Hell, I didn’t want it.

Until her.

But I’ve learned my lesson and I’ve learned it the hard way. It’s the reason I’m sitting in a chair in the corner of a fucking filthy motel—waiting for the sun to rise as I stare at the battered and bruised woman in my bed, when all I want to do is climb in next to her and pull her into my arms—take away her pain and forget mine. I clench my fists and keep them pinned against the arms of the chair as I take in the dried up blood on her naturally pouty lips—lips that skimmed every inch of my body and I crave every night since.

I tear my eyes from her mouth and zero in on her closed eyes—eyes I know are pale green. Eyes once vibrant with life and mischief are now going to be full of torment and fear—when the swelling goes down and she can fucking open them again.

Her long brown hair is splayed across my pillow, matted with blood and knots from being fisted and pulled, leaving her scalp sore and just as bruised as the rest of her. I let my eyes travel the length of her, knowing the body she’s hiding behind her clothes matches her face in color and shame.

A knock sounds on my door and I tear my eyes away from the restless beauty, squirming between my sheets—wishing its pleasure that has her twisting and not torment.

Torment can’t be erased, it can’t be silenced—that shit sticks with you.

It lives inside you and destroys you, fractures your soul and rips your life to shreds.

I may have rescued her tonight but the woman in my bed is as good as dead. Her soul has been taken, chewed up and spit out by the men who attacked her—when she wakes up all she’ll know is grief.

She’ll mourn the life she had and wish the one she’s left with ends.

#DRIFTINGINTOCHAOS

ABOUT JANINE INFANTE BOSCO

Janine Infante Bosco lives in New York City, she has always loved reading and writing. When she was thirteen, she began to write her own stories and her passion for writing took off as the years went on. At eighteen, she even wrote a full screenplay with dreams of one day becoming a member of the Screen Actors Guild.

Janine writes emotionally charged novels with an emphasis on family bonds, strong willed female characters, and alpha male men who will do anything for the women they love. She loves to interact with fans and fellow avid romance readers like herself.

She is proud of her success as an author and the friendships she’s made in the book community but her greatest accomplishment to date would be her two sons Joseph and Paul.

In this irresistible Stark International Novel, J. Kenner ups the ante on Dirtiest Secret and Hottest Mess, proving once again with the S.I.N. series that she “may very well have cornered the market on sinfully attractive, dominant antiheroes and the women who swoon for them” (RT Book Reviews).

All eyes are on us . . . and there’s nowhere to run.

Everyone has their own ideas about Dallas Sykes: He’s a reckless billionaire, a devilish playboy, a man who gets whatever he wants the minute he wants it. But I know the real Dallas behind the money, bravado, and power—and he’s completely, blissfully mine.

We carefully guarded our secrets, and in each other’s arms we sought refuge from our dark past. Our pain became our pleasure, our control within the chaos. But we could only hide from the truth for so long.

Now we’ve let loose our inhibitions and are ready to face the future. And no matter what people think or say, coming clean is its own sweet reward.

Sweetest Taboo is intended for mature audiences.

My Review:

4/5 Stars!

Sweetest Taboo is exactly as its title advertises – a sweet taboo. J. Kenner delivers another hot, suspenseful, emotion-filled read and more of Dallas Sykes! You can never get enough Dallas Sykes. A fantastic addition to the S.I.N series!

“There are so many things to say. Important things. Essential things.”

“Jane—”

“But not now. I don’t want to talk about any of it right now.”

Hope warred with fear inside him.

“I just want—oh, please, Dallas. I don’t want to talk. Right now, I just want you to kiss me.”

And that was it—that was the moment she broke him. He felt himself shatter, the fear that had hardened inside him like glass breaking into a million tiny pieces. He reached for her, then cupped her head and closed his mouth gently over hers.

Immediately, he became drunk on the taste of her, aroused by the feel of her.

He wanted to crush her body against his, to feel her heat, her heart. He wanted to bruise her mouth with his kisses and close his hands tight around her arms. He’d come so damn close to losing her, and he couldn’t stand the thought of ever letting her go.

But he didn’t—he couldn’t. She was too fragile, and the possibility that he might hurt her—more, again—ate at him. So instead, he littered soft kisses on her face, her neck. He stroked her. Touched her. Hell, he worshipped her.

“Dallas?” Tentatively, her fingers brushed his face.

He blinked and focused on a space over her shoulder, knowing that he’d come completely undone if he looked into her eyes. “I thought I’d lost you. First, when you walked out. And then—and then—”

The words caught in his throat, too horrible to even voice. “Christ, Jane. I can’t lose you.”

Gently, her fingertip stroked his lower lip. Even more gently, she took his chin and forced him to look at her. “I’m right here.”

“And thank God for that.”

Their eyes met and held, and for a moment there was no time, no space, no world that judged them. There was just them.

Then she lunged, her mouth closing over his with such firm finality that it both broke the moment and had him laughing. “This is how I want you,” she said, and he answered her silently but enthusiastically, pulling her hard against him, slamming his mouth against hers. Taking. Consuming. Until he was nothing but heat and need, an ache building in him that he couldn’t quench no matter how tight he held her, how hard he kissed her.

He was lost in her, drowning in the sensuality of her fingernails digging into his back. Of her teeth claiming his lips. Of the way her pelvis ground hard against his erection.

With a low, needful groan, he slid his hands down and grabbed her hips, craving an even closer contact. He tightened his grip, pulled her toward him, then immediately released her and stepped back when she released a soft, sharp, “Oh!”

“Distance.” She dragged her teeth over her lower lip as if she was unsure about how he felt.

“Oh, baby. No. Never.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”

She cocked her head, then narrowed her eyes. “Where?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

The speed of her reply sang in his heart. “Then let me take care of you.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “If you’re thinking about putting me to bed, you can just stop that nonsense right now. I’ve been in a hospital for almost two days. Between boredom and sedatives, I’m all caught up on my sleep.”

“I promise, sleep is the last thing on my mind.”

That was a little bit of a lie. She’d protest, he knew, but she needed more sleep. Good sleep, not with nurses popping in and out and a sterile bed with the scent of hospital disinfectant permeating the room.

She’d sleep, all right. But he intended to make sure she was ready for it. That she would drift under, safe and warm and content in his arms.

Gently, he drew her into the bathroom, her favorite room in the apartment. The previous owners had knocked out a wall, turned the small second bedroom into a closet, and used part of that space to make room for a steam shower and an oversize whirlpool tub. The day they’d moved in, Jane had told him this bathroom was a little slice of heaven.

He turned the water on, cranking up the heat the way he knew she liked it, then he stood her on the dense, white rug that filled most of the space.

“Are you tending me?” Her voice was as teasing as her expression, and it was all he could do not to gather her close and sigh with contentment. Yes, he knew she was still aching and sore. No, they didn’t know who her attacker was. Yes, her birth father was locked in a cell, and Dallas was the one keeping him there.

But none of that mattered. Not then. All he cared about—all he could hold in his head—was Jane. That she was alive. That she was his.

She complied, and he peeled off her scrub top, delighted to find that she wore nothing beneath it. Her breasts were perfect, round and firm, and as he watched, her nipples tightened and her areolae puckered. He wanted to roll her nipples between his fingers. He wanted to taste her breasts and feel her arch back and moan, her tits hard and hot in his hands as he licked and sucked, taking her so far that she came in his arms simply from the pressure of the desire building between her legs.

Not now. Not yet.

Instead, he met her eyes. Then he lowered his gaze to her chest, watching it rise and fall as her desire heightened to match his. Her pulse quickened in her throat, another spot that he wanted to lick and tease.

Slowly, he reached for the drawstring of her pants. His fingers brushed her abdomen as he did, the touch so light it was almost negligible. It was enough, though, and he felt the shock of that connection all the way down to his cock. He was rock hard and straining against his jeans. And when her pants slid over her hips to the floor—when she stood before him completely naked—he had to fight the battle of his life not to step forward, slide his hand between her thighs, and feel the creamy heat of her arousal.

Instead, he simply stood and stared and wanted, his gaze caressing her. Reviewing every curve, every nuance. He knew her body as well as he knew his own, and the bruises he saw on her thighs and hips started a slow burn inside him.

He was going to kill whoever did this. No doubt. No question.

J. Kenner (aka Julie Kenner) is the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, Wall Street Journal and #1 International bestselling author of over seventy novels, novellas and short stories in a variety of genres.

Though known primarily for her award-winning and international bestselling erotic romances (including the Stark and Most Wanted series) that have reached as high as #2 on the New York Times bestseller list, JK has been writing full time for over a decade in a variety of genres including paranormal and contemporary romance, “chicklit” suspense, urban fantasy, and paranormal mommy lit.

JK has been praised by Publishers Weekly as an author with a “flair for dialogue and eccentric characterizations” and by RT Bookclub for having “cornered the market on sinfully attractive, dominant antiheroes and the women who swoon for them.” A five time finalist for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA award, JK took home the first RITA trophy awarded in the category of erotic romance in 2014 for her novel, Claim Me (book 2 of her Stark Trilogy). Her Demon Hunting Soccer Mom series (as Julie Kenner) is currently in development with AwesomenessTV/Awestruck.

Her books have sold over three million copies and are published in over twenty languages.

In her previous career as an attorney, JK worked as a clerk on the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals, and practiced primarily civil, entertainment and First Amendment litigation in Los Angeles and Irvine, California, as well as in Austin, Texas. She currently lives in Central Texas, with her husband, two daughters, and two rather spastic cats.

With an ex fiancé leaving her in debt, breaking up with her girlfriend and struggling to find a place she can afford, Sophie McKenna has hit an all-time low. Everyone thinks she’s a lesbian, and she likes it that way, but her estranged parents know better.

The foul-mouthed motocross mechanic, Rocco De Luca, only has his incarcerated brother left. Every day is a battle of the mind and of the bottle. Tequila and easy women soothe the pain, but they never fill the void.

Rocco doesn’t mind offering his spare room to the hot lesbian he refers to as ‘Suds’. She won’t be clingy, far from it, and he’s keen on the idea of getting to see a bit of girl on girl action.

With such volatile personalities under the same roof, and being in April and Spencer’s wedding party, they both have to learn to get along, even though they can’t stand each other.

He never thought he might actually grow to like her.

She never thought she might actually hate him less.

*Contains content for over 18 years of age. CAN BE READ AS A STAND-ALONE

If I poke him, will it be like waking an angry bear? I’m tempted, but I won’t. That’d be a bitchy thing to do. We might be living under the same roof, but we lead separate lives. And that’s how I want it. Completely separate. Removed. His business is his, and mine is mine.

I take a step backward and step on something metal. I crouch down and pick up a spoon. I look around underneath the coffee table, and find an empty glass bowl with remnants of green an inch below the rim.

Snatching up the bowl, the cruel absence of what I was planning to eat when I got home tonight mocks me.

The motherfucker ate my jelly.

“Hey,” I bark out with a hard shove to his shoulder.

Rocco grumbles and swings his head back violently, one eye open as he searches me out. “Who the … what the fuck?” he hisses. Rolling onto his side, he props himself up and falls back into the couch cushions and runs his fingers down his face. His dark brown, almost-black eyes drill me, as he runs his tongue over his bottom teeth. The whites of his eyes are scattered with red, and beads of sweat lace his brow and down the sides of his face. He looks like shit. More accurately, he looks like someone who greedily smashed a bottle of primo tequila last night.

“You ate my jelly,” I say, shoving the bowl towards him.

He shrugs and his lip curls to the side. “I was hungry,” he says with a challenging gaze.

“You were fucking hungry? I haven’t been here even twenty-four hours and you’re helping yourself to my food?”

He scoffs, and I want to punch him in the face.

“It’s jelly,” he says, with a roll of his eyes. “It’s like a dollar or some shit. I’ll buy a packet. Bloody hell, I’ll buy two. No need to get your fuckin’ panties in a bunch.”

He sits up and rakes his fingers back through the longer strands of dark hair on the top of his head. He slouches farther into the couch, one hand scratching at the faded black T-shirt adorning his chest, the other hand sliding between his legs and adjusting himself.

Fucking men.

“I’m not pissed about the fact it costs bugger all. I don’t touch your shit and you don’t touch mine. Got it?”

I turn on my heel, flicking my ponytail over my shoulder. I couldn’t be arsed waiting for his response. I can’t imagine I’ll like it anyway.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“And would it kill you to put the bloody toilet seat down?” I throw at him as I walk out the door.

His laughter echoes into the stairwell, right before the door slams shut.

Jennifer Ryder is a bestselling author with five novels in the Spark Series published to date. She loves to write about boys on dirt bikes, detectives and strong females who aren’t afraid to fight for what they want.Living on a rural property in New South Wales, Australia, she enjoys the best of city and country. Her loving husband is ever willing to provide inspiration, and her two young cherubs, and sheep that don’t see fences as barriers, keep life more than interesting.

Jennifer placed third in the International Stringybark Erotic Short Fiction Award 2013.

From USA Today bestselling author Roxy Sloane comes a filthy, seductive new duet. Spare panties and extra batteries definitely required!I’ve never fucked a woman who didn’t lie.
Not to me. When I’m grinding eight inches deep up against your G-spot, you can bet you won’t have the mind to remember your own name. No, I’m talking about the next guy. And everyone who’s unlucky enough to come after me.
“That’s right, baby. You’re the best.”
“Nobody’s ever gone so deep.”
And this one, the classic. The biggest fucking whopper to ever cross a woman’s lips:
“Size doesn’t matter. It’s what you do with it that counts.”
Right, love. Say that again with a straight face once I’ve stretched you so wide, you’re begging me to stop and screaming for more, all in the same goddamn breath.
Go on, I dare you.
We’ve all got our secrets, but it just happens to be my job to figure yours out. I’m the best in the business, and I never back down.
But this case is different. This girl is different.
I don’t just want her secrets. I want everything.

My Review:

4/5 Stars!

Wow! What a great start to this duet!

Tempt Me is hot…scorching hot thanks to one Jase Banner, our sexy hero. I don’t want to tell you too much, because I don’t want to give too much away. Let’s just go with this…

Chloe is set to marry the son of the wealthiest family in Boston. Jase is a P.I. who loves sex, naughty, dirty sex with any willing female. Then he meets Chloe and Chloe meets Jase. The title, Tempt Me, is pretty spot on.

Chloe and Jase scorch the pages of this first book in The Temptation Duet.

USA Today bestselling author Roxy Sloane brings you the sizzling, filthy conclusion to the Temptation duet!A woman’s mouth will tell you anything, but her body never lies.

That’s how I like it. I don’t get caught up in any drama, and I sure as hell don’t get attached.

Until her: Chloe Archer.

She started as a job, but now she’s more than that. And now I know how it feels to claim her, I don’t want anyone but her. On her knees. Spread wide on my bed. Up against the wall and screaming my name. I’m not fussy. I’ll take it all, a hundred times over, and still crave one more taste.

There’s just one problem: this time, I’m the one who’s lied. I guess what they say is true. Karma can be a real bitch sometimes.

But karma’s got nothing on me. I’m not giving Chloe up without a fight, and you better believe, I play dirty.

That girl doesn’t stand a chance. My body doesn’t lie either, and I’m going to show her just what the truth feels like.

Wicked Bond (The Wicked Horse Series Book #5)Sawyer BennettRelease Date: September 13, 2016Synopsis: Bridger Payne is an enigma that no one can figure out. Wise beyond his years, eerily intuitive and sexy as hell, every woman in The Silo wants him. None can have him. Not the real man, anyway. He might wield the lash for you if you ask prettily, but he’ll get no gratification from it. He’ll definitely make you scream, but he won’t think twice about you when he walks away. Bridger carries the darkest of secrets. He’s filled with too much pain. He’s utterly untouchable. Until she came along. **Warning: this book has sex in it. Lots of sex. Dirty sex. The Wicked Horse Series is a bit different than what Sawyer Bennett normally writes. While you’ll still enjoy fabulous characters, a suspenseful story, some witty banter and an epic romance, there’s just… a lot of sex. You’ve been warned.

My Review:

5/5 Stars!!

Wicked Bond is so bittersweet and I LOVED it! This book is bar far my favorite of the Wicked Horse series and quite possibly my favorite Sawyer Bennett book yet!

I have been itching for Bridger’s book since, well since I read about him in book one. Bridger has quietly rested in the background of the entire series, popping up when needed and making his gruff, sexy self available to his friends. He was always a mystery and the one character that I needed to know more about. Finally, we get Bridger’s story…all the beautiful and messy details of it.

Bridger has been an enigma from the beginning. He was Woolf’s best friend, the co-owner and later full owner of The Wicked Horse and more importantly, The Silo. He was gruff and sexy and doled out some seriously sexy and sometimes kinky stuff. We were given bits and pieces of him throughout, but just enough to leave us wanting more.

I am giving nothing away…absolutely nothing, because I want you, the reader, to experience all the goodness of this book. What I will say is that once you pick this up book up, you will not want to put it down. You will cry and swoon and feel anger and sadness and love. Because, you can’t help but love Bridger. You just can’t.

So, whether you have read the other books in the series or not (and it is not necessary to have read them), you will not want to miss this beautifully bittersweet book. If this is truly the end of the Wicked Horse series, then I must applaud Sawyer Bennett on a fantastic set of books and a perfect and satisfying ending!

About the Author:Since the release of her debut contemporary romance novel, Off Sides, in January 2013, Sawyer Bennett has released more than 30 books and has been featured on both the USA Today and New York Times bestseller lists on multiple occasions. A reformed trial lawyer from North Carolina, Sawyer uses real life experience to create relatable, sexy stories that appeal to a wide array of readers. From new adult to erotic contemporary romance, Sawyer writes something for just about everyone. Sawyer likes her Bloody Mary’s strong, her martinis dirty, and her heroes a combination of the two. When not bringing fictional romance to life, Sawyer is a chauffeur, stylist, chef, maid, and personal assistant to a very active toddler, as well as full-time servant to two adorably naughty dogs. She believes in the good of others, and that a bad day can be cured with a great work-out, cake, or a combination of the two. Connect with Sawyer: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/bennettbooks Twitter: https://twitter.com/BennettBooks Instagram: https://instagram.com/sawyerbennett123/ Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/Sawyer_BennettSign up for Sawyer’s newsletter:http://sawyerbennett.com/signup/

Witness to a murder. Kidnapped by a monster. Life hanging on a whim. Willow Armitage’s world was already falling apart; between getting fired and caring for her chronically ill father, she’s had little room for anything but survival. But that survival hangs in the balance the night she stumbles into a back alley – and watches a stranger die at the hands of the most beautiful man she’s ever seen.Lethal. Powerful. Unstable. Terrifying. The contract killer known only as Priest is a dangerous unknown, and when Willow wakes tied to a chair in his hideout, the only thing she sees in his fox-gold eyes is death. Yet for Priest, Willow is a dilemma: an innocent, a saint among the sinners he cuts down in the streets of Crow City. His code of honor forbids shedding innocent blood. Releasing her will send her straight to the police. The only answer is a warped game, and his promise: that he will find the darkness inside her, expose it, and prove that deep down, everyone is just as monstrous as he…and just as worthy of death.

Yet he unearths not a monster, but a smoldering and secret desire – one that has always terrified Willow, and may be her undoing. His touch sets her alight. His strength burns through her like flame. And his control melts her each time he binds her virgin body, possesses her, teaches her the strength in weakness and the passion in submission. But that passion may be her damnation, and in the end Willow must choose: Priest’s love, or her own life.

When his every kiss is pure sin…can she resist damnation long enough for Priest to find his way to redemption?

TRIGGER WARNING 18+: This story contains content centered around non-consent, bodily autonomy, sexual assault, bodily functions, and violence. Please focus on self-care above all, and don’t be afraid to put the book down if you need to in order to protect yourself. You come first, always.

My Review:

3.5/5 Stars!

I don’t know how I feel about this book. I guess that’s my honest opinion on this one.

I finished it about a week ago, but due to the Amazon issues, I held off on my review. There are a lot of happy people out there now that it is available on Amazon.

So, I think my issue with this book is how dark it is. I’m okay with BDSM in books, but this was…different, but I’m not quite sure how to describe my feelings on it. Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s fiction, but maybe this one doesn’t speak to me as much as others I have read.

That being said, the writing was phenomenal. The characters were so complex that at times I felt myself being drawn into their world and their heads. So, despite my hesitation at the subject matter, the fact that I could get pulled in like that tells me it is more than a good book.

I warn you, it is dark, it is dirty and it is deep. So, if that’s not something you are into in your books, then this may not be for you. However, if you are willing to suspend belief, or maybe your beliefs, then try this book. You may find yourself surprised.

His fingers grazed the curve of her waist. With a gasp, she snapped her eyes open. He met her gaze, fox-gold turned hot as melting amber, fierce and animal and stripping her more bare than that exposed, naked flesh. She felt like a butterfly pinned to a board, held by his gaze, her limbs going slack and her struggles stopping against her will. She hardly felt it, when he hooked a fingertip under the bunched edge of her tank top—then ripped with such effortless strength, the threads of the side seam snapping apart one after the other, until there was nothing left of her tank top but rags of cloth. No, she hardly felt that…but she felt it when he teased those rags from underneath the ropes, as every scrap of cloth stroked and washed against her skin until she was nothing but a trembling tangle of sensitivity and frozen breaths building tighter and tighter in her chest.

And she felt it when that taunting, teasing fingertip hooked in her panties, slipping into the opening just above her thigh, and she realized just what he intended to do.

“Don’t touch me.”

Suddenly she could move again—and she writhed against the ropes, fighting to squirm away. But she had barely an inch of slack, nowhere to go but against the ropes, hanging in midair and so fucking helpless she would scream with sheer rage if she didn’t want to cry with sheer hopelessness. Was he enjoying this? Enjoying watching her struggle? Enjoying how her skin tightened and pulled and her nipples swelled and her breaths came shallow with every touch, her fucking disobedient body whispering dirty thing, dirty thing, give me more of that dirty thing while her mind and heart screamed no, no, not like that, never like that?

Was he enjoying having her at his mercy, unable to escape his every touch?

His fingers dug into the fabric of her panties. Clenched it against his fist. Pulled. Cloth creased, bit, burrowed into her dirty, dirty thing, her wet dirty thing, her pulsing dirty thing, and she was a fucking dirty thing when she arched off the seat and cried out and whimpered and mewled, as he dragged the cloth against her and all she felt was sweet-rough friction and that slickness, sickness, wet and running like a licking tongue.

“D-don’t,” she cried again, and yet he only pulled harder, the panties so much worse than the rope when every fold and crease molded to her flesh like liquid fire and left nothing untouched. “Don’t!”

He paused, held that steady pressure, keeping her on the end of a taut-stretched wire. “Are you a virgin, firefly?” he growled.

She spat in his face.

Panting, body heaving, she drew back and spat in his face, and watched with a sort of foggy, dazed satisfaction as it landed in a wet streak on his cheek, dripping down his bronzed skin like a tear. He remained unmoved, watching her steadily, waiting, holding her dangling from the one hand as if he hardly felt her weight and those damnable fingers pulling her panties against her flesh.

“My body is not your business,” she hissed.

“Right now, your body is my property.” He slid a fingertip down into the crease between her hip and thigh, the place where the seam of her panties normally cut in whenever she sat, moved, shifted; there was something too personal about that touch, so close and yet so far, a threat that made her shrink back even as that feeling inside her nearly exploded, that hollow feeling that seemed like a rapacious beast, a dragon with an open maw and empty gullet that was hungry, so hungry to be full. “I want an answer.”

He bunched her panties into his hand again, curling the fabric in stretched wrinkles against his palm—and this time when he pulled he gave no quarter, a single sharp rip and a sound of cloth tearing like tape pulling off the spool, high and shrill. There was a moment’s painful bite, a muted cry welling in her throat, and then the pressure eased as the tatters of her panties fell, forgotten, to the floor.

Still he watched her. And she, naked with nowhere to hide, curled into herself; she felt her nudity like a presence, like a thing touching her and twisting over her flesh to force her to feel every moment of her exposure, every moment of her vulnerability and helplessness. Priest said nothing. He didn’t need to. He never needed to. When he wanted an answer, he got one, and would wait her out as he had before, implacable and unmoving and relentless. She had always imagined men like him to be all force, all bluster, all violence and snarling and threats.

She was quickly learning that silence—silence and careful, metered application of just enough strength to drive his point home—was just as effective as force.

And just as frightening.

Dangling from his grip like a puppy, she hung her head. Anything not to meet those piercing eyes; anything not to feel the shame of giving in to the quiet demand in his gaze; anything to make this end, so he would stop tormenting her and leave her alone.

“…yes,” she mumbled. Still he didn’t speak, or put her down. Defeat sparked into frustration, and she glared at him from under the fall of her hair. “Yes, all right? Are you happy? Is that what you fucking wanted to know?”“Yes,” he said simply, and lowered her to the floor.

Cole McCade is a New Orleans-born Southern boy without the Southern accent, currently residing somewhere in Seattle. He spends his days as a suit-and-tie corporate consultant and business writer, and his nights writing contemporary romance and erotica that flirt with the edge of taboo—when he’s not being tackled by two hyperactive cats.He also writes genre-bending science fiction and fantasy tinged with a touch of horror and flavored by the influences of his multiethnic, multicultural, multilingual background as Xen Sanders. He wavers between calling himself bisexual and calling himself queer, but no matter what word he uses he’s a staunch advocate of LGBTQIA representation and visibility in genre fiction. And while he spends more time than is healthy hiding in his writing cave instead of hanging around social media, you can generally find him in these usual haunts:

He’s recently launched the Speak Project, an online open-access platform where anyone can anonymously or openly share or read stories of abuse – a way for survivors to overcome the silencing tactics of abusers to speak out against what was done to them, and let other survivors know they’re not alone.

He also runs an advice column called Dammit, Cole, where he occasionally answers questions about everything from romance and dating to the culture of hypermasculinity, from the perspective of a male romance author:

Billionaire’s Pet

Abigail
I was in big trouble. The biggest. Running out of time, I turned to him. Jacob Winters promised he’d solve all my problems. All I had to do was become his pet. With some men, that kind of deal might have been a nightmare. Jacob Winters was a dream come true.

I was raised to be a lady, not a man’s plaything. But with Jacob, I almost had it all; pleasure like I’d never known and protection from the danger stalking me. Was it greedy to want more? I had his body, but I wanted his heart.

I told myself it was just sex. We were providing each other a mutual service, nothing more. Right? I couldn’t possibly be foolish enough to fall in love with him.

Jacob

I must have been crazy. I’d wanted Abigail for years, I won’t deny it. But I don’t pursue married women, and her husband was a disaster waiting to happen. Everything about Abigail warned me to steer clear, including the lady herself. Some women might cheat, but not her. Abigail was too noble for her own good. Beautiful and untouchable. Then her husband was murdered and every dark shadow he’d held back came after Abigail at once.

She was on the run, and I was the only man who could save her. The best things come to men who wait, and I’d been waiting. Abigail was mine. I didn’t want a girlfriend. I definitely didn’t need a wife. I just wanted her. In my home. In my bed. I was going to own every inch of her elegantly curved body. I’d keep her for as long as I wanted her, and then we’d both walk away. What could possibly go wrong?

About Ivy Layne

Ivy Layne has had her nose stuck in a book since she first learned to decipher the English language. Sometime in her early teens, she stumbled across her first Romance, and the die was cast. Though she pretended to pay attention to her creative writing professors, she dreamed of writing steamy romance instead of literary fiction. These days, she’s neck deep in alpha heroes and the smart, sexy women who love them.

Married to her very own alpha hero (who rubs her back after a long day of typing, but also leaves his socks on the floor). Ivy lives in the mountains of North Carolina where she and her other half are having a blast raising two energetic little boys. Aside from her family, Ivy’s greatest loves are coffee and chocolate, preferably together.